Last week, I planned to serve Tim Walz’s ‘award-winning’ hot dish as part of what I hoped would be a victory celebration on Wednesday night. His concoction features bratwurst cooked in beer and onions, chopped up, and added to a cheese and mushroom soup mixture with celery and cheese, topped with tater tots, and yes, even more cheese. It’s a classic Minnesotan recipe, and if a bit lacking in seasoning for my taste (Coach Tim isn’t one for too many herbs and spices, it seems), it sounded warm and comforting.
By Wednesday evening, I needed some comfort.
That evening, I assembled said hotdish, set the table, brought out my own set of wooden salad bowls, and served my boys’ dinner. We sat in silence for a little while, each of us lost in our own thoughts, me fighting back the urge to put my head down at the table and weep. Eventually, we started talking, and we made it through dinner together. That night, I collapsed into an exhausted lump and fell into a fitful sleep
The next day, somehow, the sun came up again. I got up early and worked out as I do most days. I got my kids off to school, went to work, and took
an afternoon walk when I cried with my neighbors who I’d met in passing before. Now, we shared common grief and exchanged names, hugs, condolences, and promises to stay strong and connected.
At the Great American Dinner table, I’m sure many families are grappling with much more than we are. Fear of deportation and family separation. Concern about reproductive freedom. Terror that their very identities and relationships are in peril because of a fascist, jingoistic, homophobic regime in the Executive Branch and elsewhere. My heart breaks for my friends and family suffering through these impending violations of personal liberty.
It helps me to remember that Democracy, like family dinners, is an imperfect thing. There are spills, arguments, laughter, and sometimes even silence. Yet, just as we return to the table, we return to the shared work of living together, of showing up for each other despite the mess. These dinners remind me that, while democracy is rarely flawless, it’s still vital—holding space for us to connect, disagree, comfort, and find common ground. And maybe that’s what matters most: We keep returning to the table, imperfectly.
Photo Credit Dan Dealmeida